Netherworld II: Blood Potion No. 9 (4 page)

And despite being in a very macho state
of arousal, Dan moved carefully. His slide in was steady but slow.
As he made me take his entire length, my legs quaked in reaction.
Oh heck, I was going to come again.

“Nice and tight and hot, baby girl,” he
said, his deep voice breathy. “I’ve missed this. I’ve missed
you.”

Is it any wonder that I love this
man?

His strength and rhythm weren’t nearly
as violent as when he’d taken my other passage, but with anal
pleasure, a little goes a long way. That deeper, almost G-spot
sensation of excitement that I get from rear entry was coiling my
insides up again. “Sir,” I groaned.

“Getting close again, baby?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All right then. I’ll tell you
when.”

His groin slap-slapped against my
buttocks, and he let go of my neck to spread my cheeks apart so he
could see our intimate joining. Imagining how it looked from his
point of view made my insides tighter still. Is there any more
profound way to give yourself to a man? I sure couldn’t think of
one, and my thoughts were all twisty-tied with submissive delight
as he took me.

Dan moved harder and faster as my body
adjusted to the intrusion and softened to his need. His hands
closed over my hips, holding me still for his quickening thrusts.
Hot, molten eagerness expanded my belly, threatened to rip it open.
Throaty moans announced my growing craving for release. Oh yeah. Oh
yeah.

“Pretty soon, baby. Nearly there,” Dan
gasped.

Sweet yearning suffused my body, fed by
the sensation of him filling me to bursting. The rapid tattoo of
flesh meeting flesh, the musky scent of our shared excitement, the
sloppy wet sounds we made, all that added to the poignant demands
of our bodies. A tremor of pure, physical glee shot through my
loins. Orgasm was right on top of me, refusing to be denied. Dan’s
rhythm suddenly went away, replaced by erratic jerks.

“Now, Brandilynn!” he shouted, and I
felt him pulse within me.

My climax tore loose from its fractured
chains, clawing and tearing through me, ravaging me from the
inside. My shriek joined Dan’s cries, ringing wildly through the
air. We yelled fit to startle the living, feeding on each other’s
ecstasy as we bucked against one another. Heaven help me, I really
do love that man.

Time passed, marked by our gasps which
rang out the seconds. In times of extreme emotion our spirits
remember the involuntary functions of our shed physical bodies, and
we know again what it feels like to breathe and have our hearts
thundering in our chests.

Except for our heaving lungs we were
still for a little while, me hanging over a Harley and Dan standing
between my legs as the last convulsions of pleasure faded. Even
after we grew silent we stayed put, Dan’s hand warm on my back as
he gently rubbed lax muscles. The nearby traffic lulled me, and had
I been capable of dozing off, I would have. Unfortunately, the dead
never sleep.

At last, my sweetie pulled free of me.
I turned around and perched myself on the motorcycle, sitting on it
sidesaddle. Dan clothed his gorgeous self with his usual uniform of
khaki pants and a white button-down shirt. I sighed. Some things
should never be covered.

He grinned at me, the corners of his
eyes creasing pleasantly. He was like a kid who’d cleaned out the
cookie jar. A rough, rugged man may not be capable of adorableness,
but Dan was making a pretty good try.

“Boy, what got your motor running?” I
asked. Now that the sex was over we were back on equal footing, and
I could be as demanding as my temperament declares.

He shrugged. “You know I’m always glad
to see you.”

I stroked my long, loose hair into
obedience. The careful updo had disappeared with my dress.
“Tristan’s going to be cranky. He wanted you to come to him right
away. Did you know Penny died again?”

Dan paled and shook his head. “Ah hell
– sorry, I mean heck. What happened?”

I smiled to let him know his apology
for using profanity around me was accepted. “Tainted blood. Tristan
wants you on the case.”

He nodded. “The feds haven’t done much
about the pouch tamperings. Para justice always ends up on the
bottom of the funding ladder.”

I nodded at the Beasts’ lair. “Anything
I need to know before stepping into the animal den
there?”

Dan’s arms went around me, and I
snuggled against his chest, wishing he wasn’t wearing that darned
shirt. “Listen out for anything major like smuggling or planned
hits. Report any crimes planned to me or Tristan besides collecting
protection money and that kind of small time trash. And keep your
head down. They’ve got a male witch they call Hazel who’s in and
out of here.”

I snorted. “Witch Hazel?”

He chuckled. “They’re not very
original. Everyone goes by a nickname. Hazel owns the local strip
club, which is where he is right now. Avoid him and when possible
stay close to the club’s leader who goes by ‘C.K.’ If anything goes
down, it’s his call.” He sighed and released me, stepping back. “I
don’t expect you to find anything. This guy keeps whatever major
stuff he’s got happening really quiet. These last few weeks have
been one long goose chase.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to them?” I
suggested. “All bluster, no real crime?”

“Don’t you believe it for a second.
C.K. may be in a small town, but he’s not small time. I can
tell.”

Dan had gone to prison, so he has more
insight into the criminal mind than most. I let the inference to
his jail time slide. He doesn’t like to be reminded that he once
committed a crime totally against his nature. “Okay. C.K. isn’t
much of a nickname,” I mused.

Dan gave me a non-humorous smile. “It’s
short for ‘cop killer’. The Beasts accept he took an officer out
early in his career, but nothing’s ever been proven. The guy might
not look terribly impressive, but underestimating him is definitely
a no-no.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he look
like?”

“He’s a werehog. Short and ugly. Just
look for the little pig everyone kowtows to.”

I suddenly had a vision of the Big Bad
Wolf calling, ‘Little pig, little pig, let me in.’ I knew Dan
wanted me to take this seriously, but I couldn’t help but snicker a
tiny bit. At his glare, I immediately wiped my expression clear of
amusement. “Short, ugly little pig. Got it.”

“Okay. I’d better get going.” He leaned
down to give me a kiss.

“See you later.”

“And watch out for the
witch.”

I arched an eyebrow at him. “Don’t
worry about that. I know how dangerous they are.”

Dan nodded. He knows how careful I am
around witches, having been on the wrong end of a wand. Then he was
gone.

I was still naked. With no other ghosts
or Augustus around to see me it was no big deal, but I decided to
get into the spirit of things. I conjured myself a formfitting
black leather mini-dress and thigh-high boots. A spike-studded
collar joined the ensemble, and I went to the black painted window,
the one with the snarling hog, and checked myself out in the
reflection aided by the nearby streetlight. I admit I looked more
Domme than submissive, but since I wasn’t entering a BDSM club, I
figured it would be okay.

I fluffed my hair out to accentuate my
high cheekbones, pleased with my appearance. I wished myself some
fire-engine red lipstick on my pouty lips, along with smoky
eyeshadow. Oh yeah, I was all that and a bag of chips now. The
dress fit me like a glove, doing justice to my size 4 figure that I
no longer have to fight to keep. I thought I looked pretty
hot.

It was time to get to work, and I
readied to enter the biker club. Beauty, meet the
Beasts.

Chapter 2

My first impression of the club was
that it looked like a low-rent bar. A real dive, you know the type?
There were battered wooden tables and chairs, a postage-stamp sized
stand where a band could play, a foosball table and a pool table.
And there was the bar itself, with a laminated countertop that
might have been new a quarter of a century ago with a lot of
bottles of liquor and an actual beer tap behind it. A refrigerator,
looking like a 70’s denizen in Autumn Gold, and a stainless steel
sink completed the setup.

Overall it was dim, well-lit only over
the game tables, which by the number of shifters surrounding them
spoke of games in progress. The corners were dark. The place
smelled of booze, sweat, animal musk, and leather.

I noted a short hallway at the back of
the room with doors on either side. The two doors on the right I
thought must be restrooms. One had ‘Cocks’ badly painted on it and
the other read ‘Cunts’. Lovely. The two doors on the left had
nothing to say about what rooms they opened to.

The thrash metal I’d heard earlier had
been replaced by the exuberant but lighter ‘90’s tune ‘Animal’, an
appropriate song given the weres that filled the place. Hoots,
whistles, growls, and snarls filled the air as the men cheered the
women dancing on the bar. The women were all human and in various
states of undress as they boogied down. They looked hard and
somehow dry, as if life had sapped all the juice from their bodies.
Even the youngest looking of the females, a girl who couldn’t have
been more than her early twenties, had a worn air about her. She
laughed as she slung her bra to the upturned faces, but it was a
sound as brittle as leaves crunching underfoot.

As for the men, they were all the
half-human, half-animal creatures the Zoo Flu had turned them into.
A virus that had originated with animals and made the jump to
people, it killed more often than it transformed its victims.
There’s no cure for it. If you catch it, you either die or become a
werecreature, the type depending on the animal you caught the flu
from. Shifters can pass it on to humans as well through blood by
way of transfusion or open cuts. They’re pretty much ostracized by
regular people, though laws state they can’t be discriminated
against.

The flavor of shifter is usually
determined by a location’s local fauna. Feral hogs, rattlesnakes,
and alligators abound in southeast Georgia, so that’s what you
mostly see in the werecritters here in Fulton Falls. We get a few
werebears too. Panthers have gone extinct in our area, which makes
Gerald a pretty rare shifter nowadays.

I was surrounded by mostly werehogs and
gators, with a few snakes scattered here and there and two bears.
They wore jeans and open leather vests with patches on the back.
The patch decorating the middle of each vest showed a slavering
wolfman riding a

motorcycle. Over top of this was a
patch that read ‘Beasts’. Beneath the wolfman was a patch that said
‘Georgia’. Most wore sandals or went barefoot. Shifting to full
animal plays hell with shoes, tending to rip them to
shreds.

The shifters not crowded around the bar
sat at tables or surrounded the game tables. Wherever they were,
every man was egging on the dancing girls, most of whom were now
topless and wearing just their thin nylon panties. Bottles of beer
and glasses of liquor piled on most surfaces, and I wrinkled my
nose at the labels. It was the high-proof stuff, booze illegal for
humans to consume. Were physiology is such that it makes it
difficult for them to get drunk. They drink the stuff that would
put you or me in the hospital in short order.

I moved around the room, having a good
look at the surroundings and keeping an eye on the door in case the
witch showed up. As the song ended and everyone went back to their
conversations and games and the ladies clambered down from the bar
(I noticed none of the men helped them down), I spied one cluster
of weres at the table smack in the middle of the room. A short thug
of a man-hog sat there with the air of Napoleon. Others crowded
around him with attitudes of obeisance. I decided Pig Boy must be
C.K., so I came closer to meet the enemy.

I was almost immediately distracted
from the werehog by the shifter sitting next to him, talking in low
tones. Now this were was a type I’d never seen in person before
despite the gazillions of movies dedicated to his kind. Wolves
don’t live in southeast Georgia, so we have even fewer of their
human counterparts than werepanthers. This is despite the fact
werewolves make up the vast majority of shifters.

He was a fine example of his breed. His
tanned face bore black markings, rimming big gold-brown eyes,
accentuating strong cheekbones and outlining his slightly furred
jaw. His nose and mouth were human, but they angled out in the
beginnings of a wolfish snout, and his sharp canines peeked out as
he spoke. His salt-and-pepper hair, caught back in a ponytail, hung
between his shoulders. I thought his speckled hair might be more a
testament to his wolf coloring than age related.

He was a little more musclebound than I
prefer my men, but he was a long ways from offending my eyes. He
had the body of a comic book hero. Rawr. I had an urge to stroke
the light, soft-looking fur that sprinkled his chiseled chest, well
exposed by the leather vest he wore. Stained, ripped jeans molded
well to big thick thighs.

I sighed. Had I been Little Red Riding
Hood confronted by this wolf, I would be begging him to eat me
up.